Brought to you by MckMama

Because we all know that I am on the cutting edge of fashion, and style, and music and literature, then you surely know that this scenario definitely DID NOT happen:

Our heroine is at work, listening to music, when suddenly, an American Idol runner up comes on: Adam Lambert. His song, “For Your Entertainment,” blasts through our heroine’s earbuds. She realizes, three minutes in, that she is dancing like a mofo, and, in terror, grabs the phone and texts her sister.

Our heroine: “Just realized was tapping foot to an Adam Lambert song. I think there’s a gay man living inside me.”
Tiny Juan: “Not okay.”
Our heroine: “Help me.”
Tiny Juan: “The help for that can’t be given by me.”

So, there it is. Our heroine has finally lost her grip on reality. Why? Because of this man:

This? Is purely for my entertainment.

Brought to you by the genius of Mizz Julie at myfourboys.net

Dear Santa,

This year, for Christmas, I would like the following items. I promise I will not return them or even try to exchange them. I will take them and love them and keep them and be very nice to them and, and, and it would be lovely.

So, this year, I want the following things:

You know, for all those lonely nights.

Because I miss things that are flat, like m'abs.

Not so nutritious, but so very delicious

Because what girl's complete without one?

Lovely, happy friends

A really attractive family, including one beautiful child

Granted, some of these things I may already have, but I wanna keep them, and for the ones I don’t? I DEFINITELY WANT THE UNICORN.

Love,

Lona

Why, hello, SATAN.

 Imagine the scenario: You’re at home, alone, with only a cowardly dog to protect you. You are sweeping and tidying up, listening to a little music on the radio, thinking, “Ooh, I’d love to take a delicious bubble bath tonight, and read a book, and get to bed early.”

So, you prop the broom up against the wall of your bedroom and take the dustpan to the kitchen, where you dispose of the ew-ness.

 On your way back to your bedroom, you begin removing articles of clothing (No, not in the sexy sort of way, because you unfurl your breasts and they roll down to your knees, much like a spool of ribbon, or better yet, Bubble Tape bubble gum) and searching for your book (“Zeitoun,” by Dave Eggers, my future husband) before going to relax and enjoy your freshly cleaned bathroom.

Then, you walk into your room.

Your closet door is open. From the top of the doorframe lurks an evil monster, a killer. You don’t see it. He has disguised himself as a shadow.

Then, he waits until you round the bed, wearing only leggings (I know, why am I still wearing these things? Spanx should make leggings so my legs have an actual leg shape, instead of looking like this: VV).

He watches you take the ponytail holders out of your hair, shake your pigtails free.

He is a voyeur.

He is a pervert.

He is filthy.

He is in your room.

He waits until you start to leave and launches himself at you. Wings spread, he flies toward you and your unsightly form.

And you? This is where fight or flight kicks in.

So you scream bloody murder and run from the room, across the house, to the kitchen. You scream a second time to make sure you’ve got all the screams out.

And because you are almost 29, you do what any self-respecting grown ass woman would do. You call your best friend, who is 8 hours away.

“OHMYGODTHEREISAROACHANDITFLEWATMEANDIALMOSTDIED!” you scream say calmly.

After much debate — the broom is in the room with it, the mop you tossed out, why do you not own bugspray — a decision is made. The foul beast must be drowned.

So, because you are conscious of your carbon footprint, you use your biodegradable cleaner.

Leave no trace, organic cleaner. The Devil must be stopped.

 And you spray that sucker. You spray him from the doorway.

You scream some more, but keep spraying, because with your friend on the phone, YOU ARE WOMYN and YOU ARE STRONG.

Finally, the intruder is dead. So, of course, you get a 13-gallon trash bag, wrap your arm in it, and get the foul beast. You fling him inside another trashbag, and then, sling open the front door to take the trash out.

Thankfully, you are confronted by the cold air, and go get a t-shirt before going around to the side of the house, where the trash bins are.

An hour later, after sitting on the bed, staring at the floor, you are calm. You are ready for that relaxing bath.

Because? Killing roaches. All in a day’s work for a strong and powerful WOMYN.

ROAR!

“We don’t need no walkie-talkies, nope no walkie talkies, we don’t need your coughing when offing the morning coffee, no, we don’t need no walkie-talkies, nope no walkie-talkies we just want our hermitry to stay and our coffee to go” — Aesop Rock

I have a confession to make.

I HATE CHILDREN’S MUSIC.

HATE IT.

DESPISE IT.

Therefore, it stands to reason that in my house? There’s none of that crap. There never has been.

There will probably never be unless The Noodle comes home one day, finally figuring out how to rebel against me by demanding a Raffi CD. (Quelle horreur. I mean, really. I just threw up a little in my mouth.)

Really? This guy? He uses bananas as phones. COME. ON.

Once, while riding in the car with my father, I demanded we turn the radio on, because I don’t go anywhere without music. I began twisting the knob (heh) and was looking for the stations The Noodle and I would listen to were we alone.

“Turn it to a kids’ station,” my father instructed.

“Uh, he doesn’t like that stuff,” I snarled.

I’ve never worried about what I was “putting into” my son’s head when I listened to music around him, because a) I’m lazy and want to hear what I want to hear and b) I like the music I listen to, so what’s good enough for my child clearly would be good enough for me, right?

Right?

Well, last night, my almost-four-year old child came into my room and said, “Mommy? Can I hear some music?”

“Sure, baby. Whatcha wanna hear?”

He paused, searching the musical rolodex in his little skulldome, and finally said, “Hmm. The Pixies.”

Which? IS AWESOME. But? Should children who cannot read or write really want to listen to the The Pixies? (In case you don’t know/don’t care/are insane the Pixies are one of the most influentual bands in rock. EVAR. They were punk/indie rockers, and my teenage idol Kurt Cobain of Nirvana was a huge fan and spoke of The Pixies influence on him. Also? You’ve seen Fight Club. The song in the movie? “Where is My Mind”? The Pixies.)

Here’s the thing. Some of the other bands/musicians than can count my son as a fan?

Lou Reed.
Johnny Cash.
The Killers.
The Decemberists.
The Cure.
Aesop Rock.
Lady GaGa.
Flo Rida.

So, when The Noodle’s birthday party takes place in a couple of weeks, we will not be compiling a playlist from Mommy’s iPod. Because? No Raffi. No … I don’t even know who else sings children’s music. (Do Sharon, Lois and Bram still exist?)

Behold, the 80s.

I mean, I guess I could order those Kids Bop CDs.

But why? Why have the creepy voice of 100 ten year olds singing a Miley Cyrus song singing at my child? First off, why do I want a Miley Cyrus song sung to my child? I don’t see much value in it. Secondly, why is it her voice — not so much the content — the problem with her music?

I don’t know.

Granted, perhaps Flo Rida is not the stuff of dreams for childrens ears, but … who cares? It’s on the radio, it’s edited. Whatever.

And frankly? Lou Reed is awesome. If my child wants to listen to Lou Reed or the Velvet Underground, why would I stop him?

 Of course, there are limits. I recognize this. But I am not playing anything too horrible. We’re not singing of raping women, of mainlining crack. We are not listening to R. Kelly’s newest tune. (Here, go ahead and listen. That’s right. The first line says he wants to get YOU pregnant. Aren’t you a lucky broad?)

I really believe kids can, at a young age, be exposed to things that are culturally relevant, at least in their parents’ minds. To me, music is important, so why would I hide or significantly edit what I enjoy, what has been a constant in my life, for my child? Why not expose him to things? I mean, I’ve turned out okay. I think. My kid probably will, too.

My dad’s Rolling Stones albums — in heavy rotation when I was a kid — didn’t turn me into a drug addict or sex fiend or Keith Richards, so well. Take that.

Not me.

Me.

And I mean, really? Do your kids actually enjoy Raffi? DO YOU?

Brought to you by the genius of Julie at myfourboys.net. Go there and find more hilarity.

Dear Sinusitis,

So, I hear you’re now also being called rhinosinusitis, because inflammation of the sinuses can’t happen without some inflammation of the nose. So that’s good.

Now my sinuses and nose are BOTH swollen. Really, I appreciate that.

Basically, I look like this right now. Wanna make out?

I played Dr. Google a little this afternoon, trying to figure out what exactly causes my head to fill with snot that wants to drip out of select holes while I try to look pretty (after all, Sinusitis, I am single, and while I am not desperately searching for a man, it sure would be nice if I wasn’t a complete and total dripping, hacking turnoff to all who see me, you know?) and go about my normal, every day functions.

So, you seem to be an acute sinus infection, although there is not a single thing cute about you. Apparently, I have 7-10 days of this? Awesome.

Maybe you’re a precursor to the pig flu. That would be great, too.

I mean, I loved having to go get Theraflu and tissues today, after tossing and turning all night, first on one side, then the other, trying to keep my nasal passages clear.

Because, honestly? Even alone at home I do not want to be a mouth breather. I mean, I am sure there are some lovely mouth breathers, but this mama? She ain’t one.

Hear the whistling of the wind from the woods? That's me, hiding, trying to breath

That’s right, sinusitis, I bought Theraflu to combat you. Turns out, it’s new, with “Warming Relief,” which a) sounds like I’m purchasing lube (which I’m not, remember, because I’m single) and b) tastes kind of like I swallowed lube (which I’ve never done, I’m only just imagining) and generally sucks.

Also, Theraflu? DOES NOT WORK.

This? Crap.

You fight a good fight, sinusitis. I mean, you clogged my nostrils completely after I took the decongestant. That’s some sneaky shit right there.

Perhaps you’d have more friends if you were nicer and left when people wanted you to. Because sinusitis? You are an unwanted guest in the house of my head.

GO AWAY.

IT’S OVER.

I NEVER LOVED YOU.

Good bye.

Lona

Okay, ladies, I’ve been stewing, and like a crock pot that’s been on low for days, I think I’m ready to be ladled out and served.

Here I am. Simmered and ready for consumption.

Whenever someone says the word “diva” I picture someone like Beyonce or Mariah Carey, someone who makes me cringe a little (and not just because they can go through chunky spells and afford all the Spanx in the world either, bitches) but because those are two names associated with “diva” that make me kind of think of … hateful bee-atches (although, B? You did redeem yourself with the whole Kanye/Tayler/VMA thing). Or, try Barbra Streisand? Celine Dion? Neither of them are really on my “awesome chicks I want to hang out with meter.”

Frankly? They're terrifying.

So, I got to thinking, who are women — women in current pop culture — that I truly admire? And you know who I came up with?

"I want your love, and I want your revenge ..."

That’s right. Lady Gaga.

Wait, before you close your browser. What do I like about her? Lady Gaga is just … herself, and she acknowledges that she’s weird and crazy and just does her own thing and frankly I think that is GREAT.

We need to do our own thing, guys.

Big ole fantastical 2009 is winding down, and yesterday I was talking to my most awesome bestie Mamanda about what a crap year this has been, not just for me but for a lot of people.

It began sort of serious then devolved into raucous laughter because frankly, let’s look at some of my finer moments from this year, shall we?

January — I spent New Year’s Eve alone, sleeping on a sleeping bag, with my angry child watching Ninja Turtles videos beside me. We woke up and it was already 2009. My then-boyfriend? Had gotten mad at me before leaving to go to a party with his friends.

February — Valentine’s Day. Gah.

March — I went to New Orleans, which was THE AWESOMENESS, because I got to hang with Mamanda. However, when I returned, it was awkward with the then-boyfriend. Twas also the last month of our relationship where he uttered the L word.

April — I had to pay the state of Georgia MORE money. Because, you know, they wanted it. May — Absolutely nothing rears its head about May. Way to go, month.

June — I went to Savannah with the then-boyfriend, and he made me cry in one of the historic squares to the point a lovely homeless man made me a rose from a reed and gave it to me, thus causing me to weep more. Of course, as a reaction to that, the then-boyfriend had me close my eyes and place my hands on a tree in the middle of the square to try to find the center of myself in the universe or some such shit as that, and then got irate when I responded, “An effing tree,” when he asked me what I felt.

July — I went back to Athens. We broke up. I found The Green House.

August — I felt goooood. I went on a couple of dates, and I enjoyed being back in MY town.

September — Hung out with Mamanda, got my groove back. Befriended some new folks.

October — I. BROKE. MY. FOOT. and fell in love in New Orleans.

Now, November’s not over, so I’m holding out for a fantastic Thanksgiving. But, seriously, look at the months prior to this one? What do you notice (other than the fact that I am wildly interesting, I mean really)?

It was a bunch of crap. And a lot of it had to do with my relationships with other people.

So, this upcoming year? I AM DONE TAKING CRAP.

So that means when a man takes back his declaration of love, peace out. When a man says he’s looking for something casual, see ya. When a friend constantly talks about her bad manicure and never asks how your shared custody is going? Au revoir. When your parents try to judge you without knowing all the facts? Not worrying about it.

I have every right to have expectations of others that are on par with what I have for myself. I give a lot to the people I have, the friends I have. I will love you and help you out no matter what. But oftentimes, as women, we get bogged down in who we are to other people — wife, mother, girlfriend, employee — that we forget to just be our awesome selves.

Well, being a mom is a part of me. And I am going to be awesome in all the other parts of me so that my son gets a real to life, honest person instead of a shell of a person who has been beaten down by people who think they can read me or tell me who I am.

Here in the bloggy world, there are so many women who I’ve come to “meet” who are fantastic — despite being single, being divorced, being married, being pregnant, being sick, being tired, being broke, being hilarious, being serious — and I want all of us to continue to be this way not just on the internets, where we can be more ourselves without exterior world judgment.

Come on, ladies. Let’s go be divas in real life.

Just not the bitchy kind.

Seriously, I LOVE her.

I want to suck that bottle ...

My baby child. Two Halloweens ago. We took him to his first fall festival, and luckily for me, The Noodle won a pair of vampire teeth. Which I promptly jammed gently placed into his mouth for this photo op.

I love my kid.

Created by the genius of Julie at myfourboys.net

Dear Men of the World,

Hi men. I like you. I mean, I really like you. When your forearms are exposed, and you’re wearing a white t-shirt and jeans … I like you.

I like how you can open the lid on the jelly jar. I hate doing that.

I like how sometimes, in the past, you’ve pumped my gas (No, you perverts, that is not a euphemism).

I like how you smell like Old Spice and have scruffy chins.

I like how you send me funny texts and e-mails.

I like how we can have inside jokes.

I like how you can check my engine, and make sure it revs properly (Yes, you prudes, that is a euphemism).

But, seriously? I do not like this new way of hitting on me.

I mean, I know I’m 28, getting sort of gobby around the … well, everywhere. I know there are laugh lines and gray hairs (Which I have covered up, thankyou) and I know that I kind of walk with a limp these days, what with the broken foot (Have I mentioned that to you guys?) Maybe I shouldn’t be so picky about how you choose to hit on me.

But. Come. On.

For example, at McDonalds, where I go to find the classiest of future husbands: I’m in the drive-thru lane.

Stuck.

When you, let’s call you Rico Suave, and your friend Slightly Less Suave, emerge from the restaurant.

“Heeeey, girl,” Rico hollers.

“Heeeeeeey,” mimics Slightly Less.

I ignore you. I fight the urge to roll my windows up because frankly, that’s like letting the terrorists win.

“Come on, loook over here, honey,” Rico says.

“Over here,” Slightly Less echoes.

Look ahead, Lona. LOOK AHEAD.

“Ignoring me? Fine, be that way,” Rico taunts.

“Yeah, be that way,” Slightly Less mumbles.

Okay. It’s been a looooong day. I am tired. Surly. Frankly, I want a cocktail but am forced to stick with tea. So? I SNAP.

“Excuse me?” I say, taking off my sunglasses and giving Rico and Slightly Less my most friendly, you’re totally going to get to do me, both of you, and videotape it, totally smile.

“Yeah?” Rico walks toward me.

“I was just wondering. Has that ever worked for you?”

“What?” Rico asks. “That,” I say, gesturing at his person.

“That. Yelling at a woman. Have you ever yelled at a woman and had her stop, ask you to take her out? Have you ever had a long-term relationship with a woman you met because you catcalled her whilst she was stuck in traffic? Was your first marriage based on a happenstance meeting at Wendy’s where you yelled ‘Hey, hotstuff,’ as she walked across the parking lot?”

Rico pauses, as if actually having to contemplate these questions.

“Well, no,” he finally says.

“Then, why,” I ask, “Why do you think it will work now?”

And then, dear friends, I rolled up my windows and proceeded in line.

So, men. Let this be a cautionary tale. Yelling at us? Not hot. Nagging us? NOT HOT. Generally acting like a doofus and following your clearly NOT HOT friend’s lead? NOT HOT.

Next time? Say hi. In an appropriate place. It works much better.

Have a great weekend!

Hugs and kisses,

Lona

Sometimes it’s really frustrating to go out in public with my child.

I mean, here’s the thing. I will be 29 in about two months. I am not a teenage mother. Yet, I know I do look young, and sans wedding rings, you know, ‘cuz I’m DIVORCED, people sometimes look at me as if I’m just a slovenly, exhausted-looking nanny or a PWT (Poor White Trash) mother. But I’m not. I’m his mother, his madre, his mama. And I want people to just assume that, mmkay?

I think a lot of it has to do with our looks. The Noodle looks a lot like my dad. I mean, a lot. They both had white-blond hair as little boys, big blue eyes and a wicked grin.

But me? Well, I had light brown hair and blue eyes, but clearly my hair has gotten darker as I’ve gotten older. My beautiful blue eyes? Well, now they’re a slightly less interesting gray-blue. And it sucks.

I miss being pretty.

But, even moreso, I get annoyed that people don’t think The Noodle is mine. BECAUSE HE IS. I was the one who had seed spilled into me, who let him grow – rent free, mind you – for nine months, who pushed his giant seven pound self out of a delicate little hole, who has fed him and clothed him and taken countless pictures of him.

I want some recognition, dammit!

Well, last night, I realized what I could do.

I could dye The Noodle’s hair brown, but that seems cruel and frankly, I love his crazy blond hairs. So, the next best thing would be to dye MY hair platinum blond.

However, I don’t know that that would be a good look for me. But, it got me thinking. Through various years, I have acquired a lovely collection of Halloween costumes and props, and suddenly I remembered what was in one of those bags squirreled away in my closet.

So, without further ado, I give you Mommy and The Noodle.

Look! Same color, similar styles. Don't you think I should bleach my hair?

Clearly, we are from the same family tree. Don’t you think so?

Wordless Wednesday, the Spaghetti Western version